Where Mountains Meet

This morning marked the end of our time in Rabat, and we bid adieu following a long breakfast that meandered from donuts to vegetable sandwiches to puff pastries to crepes to yogurt with fresh strawberries. Every time we thought the meal was finally served, it seemed another course was coming in the door. I'm not sure if this is how all riads are in Morocco or if it's because we're American or because they were impressed how much fruit salad we devoured last night, but each meal could serve twice as many people as are in our group.

The rest of our morning was eaten up by the long drive to Chefchaouen, with a bracing tea break. It seems they gave us the weak mint tea yesterday. The stuff today had us wired after only a few sips.

Pre-tea

Post-tea

For the remainder of the ride, as the relatively flat, lush landscape transformed into rolling, arid hills, we commented on the similarities of high-altitude subsistence farming, crafts, and cultures we have encountered while waiting to be unleashed and burn off our caffeine high. Along the way, we saw large, mud-walled squares where salt water pools evaporated into salt crystals that could be harvested. Huts with mounds of olives outside churned out the crushed olive fruit, which was processed in the traditional way: mashing it into a paste, putting it in a palm leaf basket, and smooshing the oil out into a water basin, where the oil would separate from the water and any remaining olive solids. After passing a large building that once served as the customs office between French Morocco and Spanish Morocco, we saw the traditional dress change. Straw hats adorned with cheerful, colorful pom poms on the brim and top shaded faces from the sun, while red- and white-striped cloths were wrapped tightly around waists like a skirt to protect the other clothes from dust and grime.

The traditional straw hats. Per Ahmed, the ones with pom poms are typically worn by women, but I've seen them on people of both sexes.

Cork trees rose to frame the street, and I realized that I had never really known where corks came from... Did you?

At long last, Chefchaouen rose into sight.

Its name, which means "look at the horns", is based on the location of Chefchaouen at the nadir between two mountain peaks. According to Ahmed, Chefchaouen [or "Chaouen", pronounced "sh-OW-en" (rhymes with wow-en)] was founded in 1471 by Ali Bin Rasheed to prevent the Portuguese invasion from progressing further into Morocco. The casbah, or fortress, was built to defend the area, and a wall was built around the city. This looks like it was pretty hard to construct, since the wall rises up a mountain and it's unclear where they got the materials. In the modern day, the defining feature of Chefchaouen is its blue color. Every building is painted at least partially blue, and the shade ranges from royal blue to seafoam to teal. As we approached the town, my mother exclaimed, "It's the smurfs' town!" while my sister added, "a blue ninja would do well here". I'm glad my family has such cultured responses to historic landmarks.

Then again, my first thought on learning that this was in (formerly) Spanish Morocco was, "Thank God I won't have to pantomime everything anymore." If anyone has come up with a good charades act for the word "ginger", let me know.

We settled into our riad, which could certainly double as a smurf palace, before walking to lunch. We tried various local dishes, like harira and bissara (fava bean) soup, but I will admit that we weren't huge fans. However, the taste and texture of dishes varies greatly between restaurants (as in all countries), so maybe we'll have to give them another shot. Of course, with my medical school word associations deeply entrenched, I was just glad that nobody trying the fava bean soup later discovered they had G6PD deficiency.

After lunch, we wandered Chefchaouen, stopping at shops to look at local goods and meandering through the casbah, which offered beautiful views from its turrets and dark reminders of prisoners suffering in its prison.

As the sun fell lower in the sky, we changed course and headed up to the Spanish Mosque, a brilliantly white building that was built as a sort of olive branch by a Spanish military officer to the stubborn Chefchaouens. As with hardheaded people everywhere, the Chefchaouens rejected the gift and the Spanish Mosque has never actually been used as a mosque. (Of note, the name "Spanish Mosque" is the one used for tourists. The locals call it the "Big Moustache Mosque" - in Arabic - after the Spanish officer who donated it.) Still, it sees plenty of foot traffic, as its position high up on the mountain and its near-panoramic views make it the perfect place to watch the sunset... with hundreds of other people.

Local teenage boys played guitar and girls posed for "with the band" selfies. Tourists swung tired legs as they sat on the stone walls and waited for a rainbow sky. At long last, the sun fell behind the far mountains and the sky gradually gave up pinks, oranges, blues, and purples.

We headed back down the mountain before our path became dark and headed to dinner, where we had couscous and kefta (a minced meat/Moroccan meatball dish) and a vegetable cake (for our resident vegan). With fires blazing in the hearths and comfortable blankets and cushions on our bench seat, it was a place we could have easily had another 3-hour dinner. This time, though, we managed to restrain ourselves and head riad-ward before 10.

Spotted:
Names carved into cactus leaves/paddles, the way that names are carved into trees by lovestruck teenagers in the United States.

Additional photos from our day:

Grape vines wrap around electricity lines as they weave through the town

Our bread always comes in these large, flat wheels. According to Ahmed, the average Moroccan eats about 1000 loaves of bread per year, or about 3 loaves per day.

We saw even more people, particularly men, wearing djellabas. When we first saw tan or brown djellabas, particularly from the back, we were reminded of the attire of Tusken Raiders (aka Sand People) from Star Wars

Many small Moroccan communities still use communal bakeries. Each family will prepare their bread ,which looks a little bit different, and bring it to the baker. The baker has made bread for these families for years and can identify the proper home for each loaf.